


Sterek Short- Break Up

by dreamofflight



Series: Breaking Up is Hard to Do [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Break Up, Heart Break, M/M, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-02
Updated: 2013-03-02
Packaged: 2017-12-04 01:00:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/704648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamofflight/pseuds/dreamofflight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This isn't a happy fic, but I'm working on there being a happy ending. It's turned into a series that's on going, so this section is done, but the 2nd and 3rd sections aren't just yet!</p><p>"... the day that Derek Hale pulls him onto the back porch, away from the rest of the pack to talk, the frogs and crickets serenading them as Derek speaks plainly and calmly, the words</p><p>“Stiles, we can’t do this anymore,”</p><p>Flowing from Derek’s lips like he’s talking about watching a bad cop drama on TV, not this quasi-sorta-relationship thing they’ve been building on for /TWO YEARS/ now…</p><p>Yeah.</p><p>That’s the most painful day of Stiles' experience."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sterek Short- Break Up

It happened on a Tuesday afternoon, late, late in August; the summer weather had hit Beacon Hills hard, leaving the normally busy town sluggish and lazy. Everyone in the pack was laid out on the newly replaced porch; the freshly sanded and varnished wood is cool thanks to the shade of the slowly-being-rebuilt-Hale house. There’s red and purple and orange stained popsicle sticks littering the steps from the bag Lydia had brought them, and Scott and Isaac were attempting to pluck out ‘twinkle, twinkle, little star’ on the old acoustic guitar they had bought from a second hand shop on Main street two weeks back. Sticky fingers made it harder than it should have been.

That’s what Stiles remembered as the preface to the most painful day of his existence.

Being beaten to a pulp by Gerard? _Eh_ , he’d had worse.  
Getting his arm broken by the Alpha pack last summer? Nothing, just a flesh wound.  
Even when the rogue omega wandered through town, and attempted to use Stiles as a scratching post, he was cool; after all, he had some nifty scars to show off now.

But the day that Derek Hale pulled him onto the back porch, away from the rest of the pack to talk, the frogs and crickets serenading them as Derek spoke plainly and calmly, the words

“Stiles, we can’t do this anymore,”

Flowed from Derek’s lips like he was talking about watching a bad cop drama on TV, not this quasi-sorta-relationship thing they had been building on for  _/TWO YEARS/_  now…

Yeah.

That was the most painful day of Stiles’ experience.

-

“What do you mean,” Stiles said, face twisting in confused rage already, “ _‘we can’t do this anymore’_  ?! What the hell-“ Derek’s lips thinned out and his eyes darted toward the house and back to Stiles, and Stiles realized his voice was raising.

The pack was less than a hundred feet away. Stiles took a deep breath, feeling every single muscle in his body tense for this fight they were about to have- because he wasn’t letting Derek do this. He wasn’t going to let the asshole Alpha jerk face just _walk away_ like this was nothing.

Because it wasn’t. This thing they had?

It was  _everything_.

-

Derek sighed, face scrunching up, his chest tightening at the sharp pain he could actually feel, tense and angry and broken and _wounded_ , flowing out of Stiles. It hurt to feel, to see it on Stiles’ face; it was all the worse knowing he’d put it there.

“You’re going away to college-“

“Are you fucking _kidding me_  ?! College?! This, this is seriously about me going away to college, Derek?” he sputtered, incredulous, “We  _talked_  about this man,” Stiles whined, voice going high and soft, the way Derek knew it did when Stiles was both annoyed and scared of something.

Derek shook his head, once, firm.

“No.  **YOU**  talked. I listened. Doesn’t mean I agreed.”

“Derek. It’s Stanford. It’s not like I’m moving to Mars,” Stiles deadpanned, his arms crossed over his chest in a strangely familiar way. Derek realized almost instantly that was HIS _‘I’m pissed off and you little shits aren’t listening’_  pose he used almost daily with the pack. Less so now that Stiles was practically ‘co-leader’. Derek’s heart clenched and his throat clicked as he swallowed down the words of apology he wanted to say.

He couldn’t. Not now.

“It’s still hours away, and you’re going to be a freshman. You got a full ride, Stiles- I know you. You’re going to take a full course load, and extracurriculars, and you’re going to be great,” Derek said, a tentative smile coming to his lips, which Stiles didn’t echo.

“And your point is?” Stiles said, eyebrows raising. Another Derek expression. Derek felt sick to his stomach.

“…Maybe you should be doing other freshman things, too.”

It hit Stiles then. He got it. Between the slope of Derek’s shoulders, the resigned way he was standing to the soft tone of voice he never used, not unless they were between the sheets and Derek was deep inside him, murmuring his name in his ear between nips of too sharp-not sharp enough teeth.

“…Oh my god,” he whispered. “ _Oh. MY. God-YOU_..you think I want to date _other people_?!” Stiles hissed, shoving Derek hard in the chest. Derek had to take a step back to keep his balance, he hadn’t been expecting that. He swallowed again and shrugged noncommittally.

“Maybe. Maybe not. You should have the option though, Stiles-“

“Jesus Christ, you self deprecating, self sacrificing _asshole_ ,” Stiles whispered, face turning red as he took an angry breath. Derek looked startled at the words. He shook his head, shrugging again, his arms wrapped around himself like a security blanket.

“Stiles. I can’t give you what you need.”

“What I need is someone who’s there for me, Derek. Who doesn’t constantly question our relationship, and where it’s going. Who believes me when I say that I LOVE HIM, and that he’s a decent person when he’s not all wolfy, and- and rawr in my face.”

Derek shut his eyes to breathe for a second, the absolute pain in Stiles’ words, the way he drew them out to emphasize them (‘someone who’s _there_ for me’ ‘who _believe_ / me’ ‘he’s a _decent_ person’) killing him. He nodded and opened his eyes, throat sticking shut and tongue heavy when he spoke.

“I know.”

“No.” Stiles shook his head, adamant. “No you don’t. You don’t know, or you’d get that I’m talking about _you_  when I say those things. You’re a total  _dick_ sometimes Derek, but I love you. I love you _so_ much,” Stiles said, stepping closer, carefully, as if Derek was going to bolt anytime. He cupped Derek’s face with his hands, fingers trembling as Derek jerked slightly, but didn’t move out of Stiles’ grasp.

The kiss was gentle, coaxing when it came; Stiles moved against Derek, water against the mountain side, eroding away at the surface until it gave to the water’s will, made way and let itself be molded. Derek opened up, a soft sound escaping his lips into Stiles’ own, lost in transition, though Stiles would think back later and classify it as a whimper- broken and soft.

It didn’t last long. Derek was gripping Stiles’ wrists in his hands, iron strong grip immovable, and it hurt to struggle but Stiles did anyway.

“No, _No, no_ ,- Derek! **NO** - _please_ ,” he whispered, edge of panic painting his words, the look of resignation on Derek’s stone face enough to let Stiles know he’d lost the battle.

Derek declared it over before he ever opened his mouth.

“Stiles, I’m sorry,” Derek started softly, but Stiles wrenched his hands out of Derek’s grasp, gasped at the pain, and punched him in the jaw. It hurt Stiles more than it hurt Derek, but Derek let him. He knew Stiles needed this.

“NO.  **NO**  you’re NOT, you’re not sor- ** _you’re NOT!_**  If you were- Derek, please? Please you-you can’t  _you can’t_ , please, Derek,” Stiles babbled, his words sliding downhill, an avalanche, shifting from fury to sorrow so quickly it left Derek’s head spinning. He backed away, Stiles weaving on his feet, chest heaving as he tried to breathe.

“Stiles?”

“I…I-c…cah… _can’t-_ “ His hands scrabbled at his throat, face drawn and pale.

**_Panic Attack._ **

The words went through Derek’s mind quickly, flashing red and yellow, CAPITAL LETTERS, and he knew if he didn’t calm Stiles down, things would go from bad to worse in an instant.

He stepped back in and took hold of Stiles’ shoulders, eyes calm as he looked into Stiles’ own red rimmed ones, tears streaming from the corners as Stiles tried to suck in enough breath around his sobs.

“Stiles, Stiles- baby?”

The nick name did it, yanked Stiles from his circular logic, his head no longer pounding as much, the world around them quiet for a split second.

Everything faded away but the look on Derek’s face, the look of concern that told Stiles this _wasn’t_ over.

Told him that Derek still loved him.

The panic faded with each controlled breath Derek coaxed him through, the counted breathing a skill he’d learned from his Mother, but came to practice with Derek as a way to keep him from being useless during fights.

“In 2 3…Out 2 3….good Stiles, keep going- In 2 3….Out 2 3…,” Derek said, somehow having moved them to the porch swing Derek had installed one night, a month ago, as a surprise. Stiles had mentioned offhand one day that his Mother had always wanted one, but their house just wasn’t built to have one. The swing had been up the next day.

“..Stiles?”

Stiles looked up, Derek’s eyes searching his now that he’d made eye contact. He nodded, swallowing before speaking.

“M’okay…,” he mumbled softly and Derek instantly let go of his shoulders. Stiles wished he had lied.

“I know you can’t see it, not now- but this is for the best,” Derek said softly, eyebrows knitted together in a gentle frown. Stiles wanted to kiss his forehead until it smoothed out again, like it did when Derek was sleeping.

“…You’re right,” Stiles replied, shaking his head and scrubbing at his face with the back of his hand. It was gritty and wet with tears. “I can’t see that. _I won’t_.”

Derek was quiet for a moment, and then he sighed softly, shifting away from Stiles. That subtle movement broke his heart all over again, and Stiles found himself reaching out, gripping the edge of Derek’s shirt in his hand without even thinking about it.

“Don’t.”

“…Stiles…”

“Please? Please, Derek, you _don’t_  have to do this,” Stiles begged, his voice breaking on the other man’s name, as if it pained him to even say it.

Derek took a sharp inhale, and stood up, pulling his shirt out of Stiles’ loose grip as he did it. His back was stiff, shoulders up and tense, hands held open at his sides; but Stiles could see how frozen they were, Derek’s knuckles locked in a barely curled position, curved like claws.

“Yes. I do.”

Derek walked away, leaving Stiles alone on the porch swing, which was gently moving from the motion of Derek getting up. The rocking did nothing to help him, the pain in his chest blooming up, red and aching the second Derek left the porch; Derek didn’t even look back as he went inside.

~

The ride to Stanford was quiet. For some reason he would never understand, his Father could tell Stiles wasn’t in the mood to talk, or for the radio, so the ride was blissfully silent.

Stiles replayed the argument over in his head, seven times, on the ride down.

He remembered sticky fingers and red tongues, laughter and dappled sunshine.

His chest ached when he calmed himself down from a panic attack now, because all he could hear was Derek’s voice in his head, talking him through it step by step. ‘Good…In 2 3…, Out 2 3.’

Stiles called the fifth night he was there, from a party, the music blaring in the background, and drunkenly screamed into the phone at Derek’s answering machine.

Derek got it the next day, and when he heard Stiles’ voice, it was the most painful day of his life, since his sister died.

“ ** _Yooouuu_**   _wanted_  me to see other people Derek, right? RIGHT?! Your wish is my ca-mmannnd, oh mighty Alpha  ** _ASHHHOLE_**!”

Derek remembered the smell of fresh cedar, the redness of Stiles’ lips, and the pain of letting go.


End file.
